


sorry about the blood in your mouth (i wish it was mine)

by little_bird



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_bird/pseuds/little_bird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sorry about the blood in your mouth (i wish it was mine)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Прости за кровь у тебя во рту (я бы хотел, чтобы она была моей)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/404595) by [InkDaisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkDaisy/pseuds/InkDaisy)



The flat seems so empty now, though of course Jim’s stuff is exactly where he left it. Still, it seems so barren and grey and _hollow_ now that Jim is gone, now that it’s just Sebastian and all of Jim’s things that Seb didn’t have the heart or the energy to get rid of or even put away. It’s empty and it’s silent, always silent. Sometimes Seb thinks the silence is deafening, but then he has to laugh a little because that’s exactly the kind of thing Jim would say sounds stupid. But it’s true. Without Jim’s voice filling up the room with his shouting or his whispering or his babbling, it’s just silent air and blank space. Weeks of it. An eternity of it.

Seb knows he should move out, sell the flat. Should really move on and find new work and a new life, or at the very least get off the couch, but he’s finding it harder and harder to care about what he should do and easier and easier to just sit and be enveloped in that incessant silence. It’s pathetic and he knows it, this daze he’s been in since St. Bart’s, since Jim blew his brains out on a rooftop just to be the winner in a game whose rules Seb never really understood. Before this Seb would have scoffed at the prospect of such a melodramatic display of sentimentality. He knows that too, but it’s just something else he doesn’t care about anymore.

It’s been weeks and it’s been forever and Seb just keeps thinking, keeps remembering. Remembers the first time he met Jim in an alley behind some filthy bar in Manchester. Seb had been monstrously drunk and Jim had been beautiful and dangerous in his Westwood suit and his perfectly polished shoes. “I have a job for you, Sebastian,” he’d said, in that strange and ever-changing voice, “And I promise it’ll be worth your while.” Seb hadn’t asked how he’d known his name (though he later found out just how easy a task it had been for Jim to find that out); he just shook Jim’s hand and Jim had smiled and Seb could swear he saw all seven sins in that smile.

He remembers putting bullets through the heads of anyone Jim asked him to. He remembers hotel rooms and taxis and abandoned warehouses. Remembers Jim’s hands on his hips, on his back, at his throat. Jim’s lips at his ear hissing filthy things, lovely things. He remembers teeth marks and bruises and bloody lips, from fighting and from fucking and sometimes from both.

He remembers these things.  
He misses these things.

Because now that’s all gone. That life, his life with Jim. It was over and Jim was gone and all his things were covered in dust. And Seb sits and Seb wanders through the halls and Seb sighs and Seb feels more and more hollow each day. He should throw Jim’s stuff away and move on, maybe set the whole place on fire. But he won’t. He’ll sit on the couch in the flat they used to share until he’s covered in dust too. He hopes he’ll turn to dust.


End file.
